Fourteen Hundred Days And So It Ends
by Dictionary-Dominatrix
Summary: They’ve spent over fourteen hundred days together in the adjoining offices – it’s hard to replace a person you’ve spent the last five years of your life with... Sam and Toby, as seen on the last day. The goodbye. Set after Red Haven's On Fire.


Sam stretches lightly as he reaches for the top shelves of his office where his personal souvenirs of the exclusive trip known as the 'White House Experience' are kept. Old photographs of the team are here – he smiles as he picks up one of them up. It was taken on their first election night, and they're celebrating in wrinkled, day old suits with bottles of champagne everywhere and the first real smiles in weeks plastered on their faces as they danced, drunkenly happy.

He places it in his brown, standard cardboard box. An ordinary box for extraordinary memories.

He doesn't have time to look at all of them – he needs to get them shipped fairly soon so they arrive before he does – but still he pauses over them, watching as moving memories emerge from the pictures. A picture of Toby, hunched over his laptop as he scowls at the camera is next; then the Polaroid of him and Josh, falling asleep on each other. (He doesn't know when it was, or even who took it, but Sam, though he'd never admit it, finds it endearing to see Josh when he's at least a little innocent).

Another one of CJ, grinning spectacularly with Donna, with beautiful laughter lines forming around their eyes, ends up in the box on his desk. A few group ones in cheap wooden frames with plastic covers are thrown in – they're easy to have reproduced and he doesn't worry too much about any damage.

Then, another one, the most valuable - his only formal photograph of the staff, with a message on the back from the President - is picked up.

Sam clears a space in the box and lays it down gently, touchingly. When they'd received them at the end of a long day, one evening in the first month, each member of the senior staff had carefully removed the picture from the intricately laid frame, and read their individual messages. They'd all been so moved by them, and Sam had honestly wondered why he was still hired if the President was writing things like that, words so beautiful as to elicit only reverent admiration from the reader. Bartlet had then simply smiled at them all, and asked them for a favour – to keep the photographs, in memorandum of what they meant to him.

He'd never told anyone what his said; and nobody on the staff had ever asked. It was just one of those things he could never forget about this job; the inspirational feelings that are still gathered by simply breathing in the President's air.

Sam looks at the photograph, and, quickly, checking his watch, begins to remove the photograph from the still beautiful frame, then, sighs, and stops, cursing himself. He's still wary about his decision to leave – he could explain it was made after an argument with his partner, that his emotions were scrubbed and raw, and that he'd reconsidered – but that would mean breaking a promise. He knows – feels - that it'd only take a glimpse at it to break him. And it can't happen.

Unlike his father, this Seaborn doesn't relinquish his vows; this Seaborn understands the pain it causes it.

The move will bring a release, a release from the relentless pressure of working there, where the mood is ever volatile, much like the American people he vowed to serve. He's fed up of the derision he faces every day, the cynicism that comes from seeing how the government really works – backstabbing, bitching, in fighting, deal making and breaking. If he wins, he'll be different. He'll be truly honest; it's the only way he knows how to act. If he loses? It's a whole different ball game.

He's always wondered what it'd be like to write without pressure, to lead the life of a writer, holed up in a beautiful white house with a garden, and a sea view ideally, so that he can look out of the window and see his future children, playing on the beach, in a little idealistic corner of California. It's never going to happen, and the idea makes Sam a tiny bit wistful as he considers what he's leaving behind.

But it's not the time for being just melancholy – shipping deadlines to meet, after all - and he continues working, packing his things, moving onto the lower shelves once he's packed the top into the box and sealed it with duct tape, marking it 'personal' in thick, black letters.

He works fast, and is almost finished in a little under an hour. The posters and banners, that cheerfully decorated what was his first Washington home, have already been rolled up, so the room's bare, making it easy for him to see the utter bleakness of his office.

He's searching everywhere now for his mementoes, for the tiny memories that escape the general cleaners. He finds scrawled notes on post its, behind the computer, tiny drabbles from Toby. A few pens with the seal of the President on that are placed silently into his shirt pocket, and some benign office supplies, but the floor seems clean. He gets on his hands and knees, and continues to search the room for his things. He has the uncanny feeling he's missing something, and so, ignoring the stains about to be freshly created on his pant knees; he crawls around in the confined space, practically praying that the assistants are _still_ in the mess, and not staring at him in disbelief from the doorway.

Under his desk, he finds it. A pink rubber ball – Toby's, obviously, but he peers at it, confused, wondering exactly how it found its way to such an obscure location.

He thinks back – it's hard to think with a swarm of memories attacking him like bees inside his head – but it probably happened during one of their late night meetings that were almost always when the President was speaking.

Sam would sit, his face glowing with the light from the laptop that he peered at, whilst Toby would sit on his couch, staring almost unblinkingly at the television, throwing the ball at the wall (or at the glass) as though it were an extension of his arm, giving a running commentary of the speech on a good day, or simply muttering and cursing under his breath about the difficulties of finding a good public speaker to read speeches the _correct_ way. He never meant it, they both knew that – President Bartlet was the greatest president in living memory, and the smartest man they'd ever known – but Toby tended to get a little stressed during speeches. Josh hadn't been kidding when he'd said that Toby wasn't allowed in the President's eyeshot during public speeches on high blood pressure days.

The ball reminds him of Toby and the campaign, where CJ had first bought them for, as she called it, 'anger management'. He grins at the memory, and briefly reminisces about the first, exhilarating campaign trail that doesn't compare to the second. Sam sighs quietly, and reaches for the ball, wanting to give it back to Toby, but his arms are too short to reach it, and he ends up pushing it further away from his with the tips of his fingers.

He crawls further under the desk.

"Sam?"

He groans, grabs the ball, and crawls out backwards from under the desk, and looks up to find Toby, face contorted into what appears to be a concerned look, staring down at him, leaning over his desk.

Sam weakly holds the ball in the air; Toby looks even more confused.

"Sam. Is there a reason you're lying on the floor or…?"

Toby walks round the other side of the bare desk, and taking his ball, and gives him a hand up; although Sam doesn't really need it, he appreciates the gesture. Toby moves back to the doorway, where he's naturally more comfortable, which puts Sam's guard up. Toby's been a little touchier in the past week; a little more cantankerous than he usually is, even with Sam.

An instinctual feeling had told him a while back that Toby'd see this as a betrayal to the administration, but he's not, and Sam's angry at him for it. But he wants to apologize too, in a strange, twisted illogical solution to the problem. Things might be worse; but how can they be more awkward than they are now?

The staff have been talking about him (Bonnie feels sorry for him and updates him on the daily gossip) and so far they seem to think that it's the MS betrayal damage showing itself; it's hard to explain that it's a culmination of events; that politics is slowing him down. Perhaps he's afraid that if he stays, he'll lose all sense of who he is, and that all his talent will be lost, and he'll be left with nothing. He wants an real life, not some sham of a life spent mainly in his office; but he's afraid that if he tells one of them, explains his reasons, they'll say, "You think you'll find that in the Senate?" with a sympathetic but mocking tone.

He's not ready for that yet. He's always been naïve for a politician, but Toby's always been there to help him up. In his own encouraging way, that is; Toby pushed him to beat him, to write, rewrite, continue editing; in short, stopping complacency. And now he was helping him off the floor; he thinks, as a writer, that it's a perfect metaphor. If he believed they existed.

He stands up, faces Toby, who now looks round the office, taking in the various boxes, each in a different shade of brown, and see the bare, empty shelves; his laptop packed away in its case. In short, a blank office.

_'No personal effects, no belongings, no items that haven't been provided by the White House…'_

He had, of course, read the memo the Office of Protocol had passed on him, and followed every word of it. It was done.

No sign that Sam Seaborn had ever worked here. He hears himself sigh, and leans back against the desk, watching Toby stand in the doorway, arms behind his back. His posture indicates defeat; Sam's not sure what he's lost; or what game he was playing.

Toby's eyes narrow a fraction as he speaks, though he doesn't sound angry, only a little surprised.

"You've packed up already?"

"Looks like it." Sam sighs, following the path of Toby's eyes around the room. He almost feels extremely depressed but pleased at the sight – a fresh start only works when ties to the old one are cut and the clearance of everything from his office except the boxes brings him just a little joy. This is overshadowed by realising that this'll be one of the last times he'll be in the building – his farewell party tonight, and attendance of the last senior staff tomorrow morning before a meeting with the President; then he releases his badge (his safety net, his whole identity) to the security guards. He'll be on a plane to a new home in forty eight hours. A week is a long time in politics, as they say, and Sam needs to be in California.

Sam gestures awkwardly to the ball in Toby's hand, aware of the dust stains on his trousers and the messiness of his hair.

"I was reaching for that, actually. When you came in. Found it under the desk, which is where you saw me," and here he blushes slightly, because he's realised that he was in a slightly compromising position, "And I was just coming in to give it back to you. Been breaking into my office? I don't remember it being lost."

He attempts a joke, says the last part with a smile, but Toby looks down at the ball in one hand, seeming apathetic. He stands almost uncomfortably in the doorway, still glancing around at the boxes. The emptiness of the room had obviously thrown Toby off beat, and he seems to struggle to find words. He shrugs.

"I don't know. Dropped it, maybe?"

Sam nods his head, then finds he doesn't actually care about it anymore, but shifts his features into a look of agreement anyways, then sits down on his – the White House's – chair.

"I just came by to give you this." He reaches into his inside suit pocket, and brings out a plainly wrapped rectangular box. Not so much a box as a present. Toby hands it to Sam, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. He's nervous; fearful of something? Sam doesn't know.

He takes it silently, and runs his finger over it, feeling the bumps of the tape holding it together, and the fluttering the box makes when he strokes one side of it, revealing it to be a book.

"It's not much, and I know CJ and Josh have gotten you a present from them, but, I…I, ah, wanted to give you something. Speechwriter to speechwriter… and… all that."

Sam grins at Toby, still fingering the present, and asks teasingly,

"So, our little Toby is growing a heart, hm?"

But he's unprepared for the response. The question, a jest, is followed by a sigh, then a reply.

"Just in time for you to leave, too."

When Sam looks up sharply at Toby, Toby smiles weakly, but it doesn't mask the look of sorrow in his eyes; nor the tone of resignation in his voice that hasn't been there for weeks; not since before the censure, when everybody walked as though it were the apocalypse and they were first in line for judgement. It's surprising to hear it back, and they share a look.

Toby looks vaguely apologetic, almost ashamed when he hears himself, and Sam sighs, finally understanding. He feels a pain pierce his heart as he looks silently at Toby; it's the pain of leaving family. He won't admit it, especially not to Josh, his best friend, but he thinks that he may miss Toby the most; his brother in everything. They've spent over fourteen hundred days together in the adjoining offices – it's hard to replace a person you've spent the last five years of your life with.

He knows that; Toby should know that, and he finally understands Toby's reluctance to speak at times. Speaking, after all, can't always show others what is really meant, and he has no idea how to express this to Toby, even if he thinks Toby feels it already.

"Can I open it?" Sam asks foolishly. Toby's expression says it all; the classic duh-that's-why-I-gave-it-to-you look suits him so well. He examines the present, finding the holes, and slides his fingers in the gap at one end, not tearing the wrapping; even if it is a little rushed, Toby's fingerprints are still all over it, and he's desperate for any last trace of him to take to California.

But he forgets about the wrapping as he slides the book out from the paper into his hand – it's a slim, leather bound copy of the Constitution. He broadly grins as he looks at it, turning it over, seeing the words 'The United States Constitution' stamped on the front in gold. It's beautiful. He smiles up briefly at Toby as he handles the small book. It's exactly what he would have expected from Toby – writers are notoriously single minded when it comes to gifts – but it's a practical gift too, one that's been thought through. He beams again, as he remembers the various times the constitution has been quoted, argued against, or simply referenced in his speeches, or just mentioned in debates and conversations that have taken place in the west wing.

The feel of the calfskin leather under his fingers is soft, and it feels heavy in his hand, as though the weight of its teachings is reflected in its size. Sam knows instinctively, that this is one of _those_ gifts.

He finds that he doesn't know what to say to Toby; 'thank you' isn't simply enough for these types of gifts, even if it is only small, because he knows that it's a little piece of Toby hidden in there to take with him.

Toby, who has been watching him lightly feel the cover – it feels like nothing Sam's touched before - coughs slightly in the back of his throat, and Sam looks up, and says, simply,

"Wow."

He almost adds, "I don't know what to say," but stops himself, because, to be honest, it's a stupid reply, and it's not exactly appropriate, because he knows precisely what he wants to say, but not how to express himself, and, though he's leaving and removing him from his life, he won't leave on bad terms.

He simply can't, and so he doesn't speak.

Toby understands though, and simply gestures to the book, making a signal that suggests he should open it. In the quiet of the west wing, it feels strangely wrong, almost obscene to speak, and so they converse silently, in a language that is strangely familiar after the years. Sam opens the front cover to find that, on the title page, there is a line of slanted script, in thick black ink, in a handwriting that is presumably Toby's. He should know, having spent the past four or five years revising his work after translating Toby's often indecipherable writing. But the writing here is formal, as though written by a calligrapher, and it is easy to read. Toby, who feels a little stiff and awkward after leaning against the door post, shifts his position, then continues to gaze steadily at Sam, who reads the writing.

_To Sam_, it reads

_Nine people in the country who could write the Inaugural. You're one of them. _

Toby.

It takes barely a moment for Sam to read it; his eyes uncharacteristically burn with tears at the back, as he re reads the short sharp message.

Toby looks down at him, as he has done in all the time he's known him. They need to talk, and so Sam begins a conversation, simply by spreading his hands, and cocking his head in a bemused way.

Toby's eyes are resigned, but bright, and they are begging him, pleading with him wordlessly, to stay.

_It's never too late, Sam._

A small tilt of Sam's neck to the right side questions, _'What?'_

_Stay._

Toby's face is telling him to wait; in his eyes, there is longing, and there is sorrow, and he even sees a hint of regret buried amongst the dark brown pupils.

A sweeping hand movement indicates the boxes; they are removed from the equation by a simply shrug of the shoulders. They can be easily unpacked, and Sam has a brief flirtation with the idea of agreeing with Toby; turning down the offer, and asking the President to void his resignation. He knows it'd be done in an instant; that the party tonight would turn into one of celebration rather than a bittersweet party with all the fun of a wake.

It's a moment of weakness for Sam, and it's reflected back at Toby, who sees it and uses it to cajole him with a bold raise of his eyebrows that almost dares him to do something about the mess he's created. Speeches without words are the best to give, and Toby, even as a speechwriter, understands this, and uses it carelessly – a raised eyebrow here, a few hand movements there, and the whole of the bullpen understands what he wants, and when he needs it by, and what to do next. It's impressive in the right context.

It used to work on Sam to, when he was young and too scared of Toby to passionately fight back or to disagree. But now Sam doesn't break easily under pressure, and he simply stares back impassively.

And speaks, ending the unvoiced conversation.

"No."

There is finality to his voice that Toby has never heard before, and suddenly Toby's mask that is coloured with loss breaks and he grins his little half smile, and laughs briefly, still looking at Sam. He stops, and asks seriously,

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

He is now; he's been challenged and he's broken his opponent.

"I didn't think you'd change your mind."

Toby's voice is clear now, with no trace of sorrow, but possibly a little respect. He didn't think he'd change his mind, no, but he had hoped it, wished for it almost, wanted it so much he hadn't breathed when he saw Sam considering the idea of staying. It hurts like hell to admit he's leaving; but he doesn't think he'd feel the same of Sam if he had been able to change his mind so easily. It shows, in his opinion, a lack of character. Perhaps it's just him; he knows the whole White House wants him to stay, but he thinks that President Bartlet would understand how he would feel.

He'll just learn to live without his partner; the man whom he has – or had – a perfect rhythm with that allowed them to take President Bartlet's ideas and allow them to be woven beautifully in the tapestry of words that they wrote to convince the American people. Spending almost every minute of the working day constructing prose and the other free few counselling the President left a strain on any man, and especially Sam, and it was visible in the way Sam entered in the mornings; walking tall, proud to be working for his country, but also with a beaten air to him, as though he were weary of the day, even at seven am.

It was the look of a dead man, and Toby's surprisingly glad he's leaving.

Sam sits behind the desk still, but stands quickly and crosses to Toby, and pulls him into a manly one-armed hug. He knows of Toby's dislike of hugs, but Toby, who isn't expecting this, briefly brings Sam closer to him and hugs him fully, their bodies pressed together.

He never truly hugs anyone, with the exception of Andi, (but she's a woman and it doesn't really count), but this is Sam, Sam the Sunshine Man, as CJ calls him, and this is possibly the last chance he has to say goodbye individually, and it doesn't matter what he says or does, so what does it matter if he's hugging him now and smelling him, breathing in his air, trying to remember the little things about Sam?

Brothers hug each other, and that's what Sam really is, a brother, even if this hug feels a little out of place, strange, because Toby's standing ineptly as usual. So it doesn't seem so extraordinary to Toby when he murmurs into Sam's ear, "I'm going to miss you, you know", and it's even less extraordinary when Sam mutters back, "Me too, Toby, me too."

When the two men break apart, each studies the ground briefly, until Sam looks at Toby and smiles wretchedly. Toby smiles his most heartbreaking smile back, and then steps backwards, looking at his watch.

"I need to, ah, go now," he says, uncomfortable at the physical contact, but he really does have to see CJ though, in the Mural Room, which is being decorated for tonight's little soiree. There will be people there, with decorations and balloons to say goodbye, and of course he'll turn up to say 'bon voyage' and all the other clichéd phrases, and then get more than a little drunk with them all, but he's said his goodbyes now, and he feels at ease for it. Content, not quite.

Resigned, definitely, but acceptance is the first step to recovery.

Sam nods, and Toby leaves the room, quietly, but turns by the doorway, as though to speak, but the question, "Do you want any help?" dies and rots on his tongue because he knows that this final stage is Sam's to do. The loneliest stage; he knows what it's like to move out of a home, and it's something that should be done alone. But Sam's waiting for him to speak and so he simply says,

"No matter who comes next, this is always _your_ office."

When Sam leaves later that evening, after finally finishing his monotonous tasks and turning out the lights in the deserted hallway, he reflects for just a moment on Toby's words. When he finally he steps out of the most famous building in America – possibly the world – for the last time as a working man, he finally feels a little freer, his soul a little lighter, and he smiles softly as the sun sets behind him.


End file.
